


Diversity Hire

by Iron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Cultures and Biology, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Medic Rodimus, Pre-War/No War AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22926934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron/pseuds/Iron
Summary: Ratchet was vehemently against taking on an intern in his medbay; that didn’t change when they shoved the little red and orange diversity hire into his medbay and told him to teach. He moves the kid down to the Dead End clinic, and he doesn’t actually expect the kid to make achange, but he does.Deadlock likes the new mech. He cares. He understands. And he’s determined to save the Dead End and Nyon from themselves.
Relationships: Ratchet/Drift/Rodimus
Comments: 93
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For @MountainGhouls on Twitter! If you like this, come hang out with me at @fab_roddy on twitter too!

He’s soft, the little Racer that steps into his medbay, datapad clutched to his chest. Ratchet takes him in - smooth helm, broad spoiler wings, splashy flame pattern on his chest. He’d heard decos were in fashion, at least among the lower classes. Thunderclash had taken one up not too long ago. It looks better on the racer than it does on his friend. The kid skitters forward, hands thrusting the datapad out at Ratchet. “I got sent out to intern here? My professor said you’re the best.” 

“I am. And?” He wipes his hands on a stray polishing cloth as he steps away from where he’s mixing additives on the desk, annoyance bubbling up over the fact that he’s being distracted from real work for this wet-behind-the-audials kid. The kid shuffles closer, wings flicking, until he’s far enough inside that the door closes behind him. The kid jumps at the sound. Jumpy isn’t good for a medic. 

“I think there’s supposed to be datawork involved. And teaching?” 

“Name first, kid.” 

“Oh. Oh! Hot Rod. Of Nyon, I mean, I’m Hot Rod of Nyon. I just graduated from the Iacon Medical Academy. Forty-eighth in my class, three point six-five average, specialized in start of life care for Forged and Cold Constructed mechs. My Forging professors recommended me to you.” 

Forging professor at Iacon... “Prezzer sent you?” 

“Yeah! You know him?” 

“Sent me my last intern.” Kid was good then, too. Another mech from a low-caste city, another barely-Forged medic. Hook was good, though. Nursing in Kaon, last he’d heard. Didn’t mean he’d survive long in Iacon, and Ratchet doesn’t have time to coddle another little medic and read him up into a _real_ doctor. Not with the workload the Prime’s been shoving off on him, and all those idiots nobles constantly tramping into his hospital. He doesn’t have time for the little idiot. “Wash up and go do inventory. Datapad and storeroom are both in the back. I want every knut, bolt, and scanner accounted for.” 

The kid opens his mouth, clearly ready to argue, but he shuts it with a _clack_ and skitters through to the back of his office. 

“Once you’re done with that you can start cleaning up the ward. Deep clean - no missing spots. If I find rust or internal fluids anywhere I’m making you do it again. Cleaning materials are in the inventory room.” Inventory’s huge. It’s gonna take the kid more than just a few hours to go over everything and check it. Probably take him the next few weeks if he’s lucky, and keep him out of Ratchet’s way until he quits or finds a different mentor. Most of the brats they send his way don’t have the patience for this slag, or think they’re better than the “nurse’s work”. If this one shapes up the same way, well, Prezzer won’t even be able to complain about Ratchet not teaching the bit. 

He leaves the kid to it. Not like he doesn’t have appointments to complete himself, and not just a few of them - he’s a busy mech. Fully booked out clear through the evening, and that’s not accounting for when they inevitably call him in for emergency surgery. The inventory’s in the back of the ward, behind the exam rooms and general intake, and Ratchet doesn’t see much of the kid through the day. Doesn’t think about him either, really. If the kid’s slacking off he’ll see it when he looks into his work at the end of the week. If he isn’t, then Ratchet’ll let him finish the task and might, if the kid show some promise, take him on hospital rounds. 

When there’s no sign of the red and yellow speeder in the morning, Ratchet’s sure the kid’s given up. He wouldn’t be the first to get fed up after a few hours of busy work and decide to go find himself a more active mentor. Wouldn’t be the last, either. He keeps thinking that even when the nurse at the front desk scowls at him, shuffling datapads around on the front desk. Not until he tells Ratchet that his boy’s “Been working on that backroom since before I got in. Did you let him go home at all last night?” 

“Who’s been - that kid?” He scoffs. “That kid? He left and didn’t come back.” 

Stitch stares at him hard, the antenna on his helm twitching back and forth. “He’s there, doc, and he’s still sorting through that mess you call an inventory room. Came out just before you did to grab a fuel from the cafeteria and went right back to it.” 

Ratchet’s never heard Stitch lie, but... That kid? Really? “I’ve gotta go see this for myself.” 

“He’s still in the back if you want to go check on him.” 

He does. And the kid is. And there he is, sitting on the floor, half asleep and carefully counting out each knut and bolt set into the containers on the walls. The datapad in his hand, paired with the way he’s drifting forward as he sits, tells Ratchet all he needs to know. Primus save him from idiot kids... 

“Hey. Kid. You been here all night?” 

The brat startles, feet kicking out and sending some of the parts containers flying, knuts flying every which way, and scattering across the floor. The kid castes them a mournful look before turning to Ratchet. “I - sorry. And yeah. You said not to leave until I finished inventory.” 

“Kid. I didn’t mean run yourself ragged on your first day. I just meant you’d be on inventory until you finished.” He looks the kid over again. No way he’d be getting home safe on his own. “C’mon, I’ll show you where the other medics crash when they pull back to back shifts.” He hooks his fingers under one of his pauldrons, dragging the kid up to standing. “I’ll finish lecturing you when you’ve gotten some damn sleep.” 

“But -“ The kid throws his arms out, gesturing at the parts scattered across the floor. 

“I’ll clean em up. Think of it as my punishment for not giving you clear instructions.” 

He pulls the kid out of the room by his shoulder, half-amused by the way he’s forced to hop on one foot all the way out. His mind’s already chewing up calculations and considerations. It’s been a long time since he’s had an intern so idiotically determined, and one from Nyon... 

He knows exactly where he’s going to be sending this mech after he’s been run through his paces. His paces and a damn _nap._


	2. Chapter 2

It takes the little speeder three days to finish up cleaning the inventory room, with Ratchet dropping in to tell him to take a break or go home or go eat something every few hours, now that he knows the kid’s too dumb to do it on his own. 

The kid’s not so bad, not really, but the rest of the new medics on rotation in the hospital aren’t too fond of him and it’s messing up the flow of things in the ICU and the rotations. By the third day he’s foisted the mechling off on the medics running the residency rotations, he’s getting calls from the medics in charge to get rid of the kid. “Too loud,” is the most common complaint, usually followed by “Too high energy” or “Too easily distracted” or “Not medic-framed”. 

Not one of them, he always notes, has anything to do with the kid’s actual skills as a medic. 

The kid’s running out of goodwill when Ratchet pulls him from the rotation floor. He’s got medic badges on his chest and the outside of his shoulder fairings, obviously temporary, and bruised mesh under his optics worse than when he came into Ratchet’s care. “Am I in trouble?” The _again_ goes unsaid. 

“Nah, kid. You’re with me today.” The kid perks up, spoiler wings fluttering, and Ratchet almost feels a bit of guilt over letting the kid get pulled around by all the Functionalist afts in his department. Only a little, though. The kid’s gotta grow a thicker skin if he wants to last as a medic. “Think of it like a test. You’re gonna do the rounds in _my_ department, and we’re gonna decide if you’ve managed to make anything stick in that helm of yours over the last three days.” 

“Yes sir!” The mech chirps, still smiling like he’s been slapped up the helm and turned stupid. 

“And get a paint change! You’re not a medical student anymore - we have a _paint code_ to adhere to. And that means no flames.” 

“... yes sir.” 

Ratchet takes him around his wing of the hospital. He’s got eighteen berths, an ICU unit with five more, two basic exam rooms, a private suite meant for the Prime, three smaller ones meant for the more powerful Senators, and a surgery suite capable of hosting two patients with full surgical teams. With this comes four nurses, with the ability to pull four more if the wing gets too full, and an auxiliary set of medics that work part-time in other areas of the hospital when not needed with him. 

It’s an impressive setup. It rarely sees more than minimal use, outside of national emergencies or the occasional senator who needs an interfacing virus cleared out. Not exactly exciting. 

Today he’s got three mechs in the ward: Senator Throughway, who came in for a replacement pump and is suffering post-surgery complications due to a weakened frame, a Senator’s assistant who’d come down with a virus that’s clogging his vents, and Senator Megatron, whose mismatched frame and spark required extensive care to make up for the strain of the Point One Percenter on his inferior miner-class frame. Today he’s in for a simple systems check and basic upkeep. Nothing an intern can’t deal with it, or help diagnose. 

Hot Rod is bouncing on his heels when Ratchet drops the first file into his hands. “Look that over and tell me what you think the best solution to bolstering Throughway’s frame is.” 

He onlines the datapad, flipping through the files as quickly as he can. Fast reader; he’s done almost before they reach the mech’s berth, and Ratchet can tell he’s got an answer he’s eager to share. 

Throughway’s an old mech, and he’s been around long enough that he’s suffered the care of more than one of Ratchet’s interns. He throws a smile at this one, too, age-fogged optics crinkled at the edges as he tries to show the mech he’s smiling without a visible mouth. “Hey, fellas. So what’s the verdict?” 

Ratchet nods at the kid. “Go on, tell us what you’ve got. Diagnosis, possible causes, treatment options.” 

“Right! Right - so his new replacement is drawing on too much energy as it attempts to integrate with a frame that’s out of date and low energy. He’s too old for this particular pump model, but they discontinued the parts that have the proper connection points several vorns ago and we didn’t have the proper ones in stock when he underwent emergency surgery. Now that he’s out of surgery he’s too weak to go back in, but the parts are drawings off too much energy for him to recover properly!” 

_... not bad. Short, succinct, sees the whole problem_. No wonder he hadn’t gotten any complaints about the kid’s work. But diagnosis was right there on the chart, and he’s just proved the kid can _talk_. The important bit’s figuring out a treatment option. “And how do we make sure he can recover enough that we can put him back under with the correctly machined parts?” 

“We feed him a slurry of sentico metallica, concentrated energon, and trace minerals and put him on a partial-replacement pump system to ease the train on his frame!” 

Ratchet stares. That solution is, “Utterly fragging insane. You don’t feed mechs _sentico metalica_ no matter _what_ they need, and he’d do just fine with the partial-pump replacement.” 

“But sentico metallica’s the best solution -“ 

“That’s fragging heresy -“ 

“It’s what we did in Nyon all the time -“ 

“We don’t feed mechs corpses in my medbay!” 

Hot Rod shrinks down, those stupid little spoiler wings of his falling like he’s a crystal flower caught up in acid rain, and Ratchet sends him off the floor with a wave of his hand. “We’re going to sit down and figure out what the _Pit_ they were teaching you in that slum medical Academy you went to.” 

Throughway is staring when Ratchet turns back to him, those clouded optics chiding. “That boy didn’t suggest anything that you wouldn’t have, four hundred or so vorns ago.” 

“I wasn’t even forged four hundred vorns ago.” Ratchet scoffs. “C’mon old mech, let’s get that new pump assistant hooked up to you. I’m not about to fuel you on living mech material for a simple mechanical job.” 

The Senator tries to relax when Ratchet starts to unhook him from the monitors. From here on out Ratchet can monitor him with his modified medic systems. “Just go easy on him. It would have worked.” 

“Just rest, old mech, before you wear out your actuators.” 

“Don’t call me old!” 

“Then don’t be so damn old, talking about four hundred vorn old treatment options -“ 

— 

Ratchet has the nurse bring the kid in for the actual surgery, but he’s relegated to a corner to _watch_ , and watch only, and he has a nurse double-check to make sure the damn brat isn’t bringing contaminants into the operating room. Even if Throughway wasn’t one of the good ones, Ratchet wouldn’t let the kid put his patient in danger. 

It’s a short, simple procedure, one that Throughway doesn’t even need to be put under for. Ratchet just numbs the area around his abdomen and opens him up enough to insert the pump assistant. He’s in and out in less than an hour, set up in a private room with a book and a vidcom and one of the prettier nurses waiting on him. Hot Rod doesn’t say a word the entire time. He doesn’t say anything when Ratchet goes to examine the mech with the clogged vent system, either, except to ask questions about the solution that Ratchet’s running through the assistant’s vents to help clear out the gunk caked in them.

He only perks up when they’ve gotten to Megatron’s exam. Ratchet expected that. The mech’s known as something of a spark thief among the younger populace; a young poet, a gladiator, and a mech with a sensor crown? Of course the younger generation had fallen for him. Between Megatron and the new Prime, it’s a wonder there’s any interest left for any other bot. 

“Don’t go asking him to sign any damn datapad,” Ratchet barks at him. “I know how you young mechs are, and I don’t need that scrap in my medbay. We treat the Senators who come in here just like any other mech, you here me? That mech doesn’t need anymore worship blowing his helm up.” 

“Yes, sir.” Those spoiler wings fall again, but Ratchet doesn’t care. Not when they flutter right back up again at the sight of the Kaonite Senator’s ridiculous, helmeted head. He even hears the little tin-can mutter a quiet, awed “Wow,” for the mech. _Wonderful, a fanboy._

Megatron straightens where he’s sitting on the exam room berth, tucking a datapad and those ridiculous reading glasses he wears away. If he’d just let Ratchet replace his optics with a better model... “Medic Ratchet. And an intern.” He glowers. Well, frag him. He knew that Ratchet’s hospital was a teaching hospital from day one. He’d even gladly let Glit examine him. 

Just for that, Ratchet hurries through the examination. It’s always the same these days, anyways: fluid replacement, Ratchet griping at him for not getting plating and parts damaged from his time in the gladiatorial arenas exchanged for better ones, Megatron making muttered statements about not abusing Kaon’s credits for his own self-care, Ratchet demanding that they replace his vents and backstruts and Megatron telling him he’ll do it when the parts fail. Hot Rod just keeps watching. 

He’d feel bad if he wasn’t sure that the kid was damn ready to fuel a Senator on mechparts. A mistake like that in front of a less forgiving patient and he’d go the way of most of the Council - tossed in the scrap heap to rust. He’d never get his full medic certification if he pulled this slag in front of someone even as easy going as _Megatron_ , and he isn’t the only mech they get in the ward. Most of them aren’t nearly so even-tempered. 

Having the kid in the medbay’s a damn danger to him. 

He sends Megatron off with a scolding about taking in more coolant - “The hot season’s coming and you’re already driving your engine too hot!” - and turns to the kid. To this mech that Prezzer had shoved off on him, who didn’t even seem to realize that modern solutions existed. 

He can’t do this. Glit - Glit was a felinoid, yeah, but he knew his stuff and he knew what not to say, and he didn’t _stare_ like the kid does, bouncing on his heels and vibrating with too much energy. Glit understood his medbay from the moment he stepped into it. Ratchet’s not sure the kid understands anything at all. 

Prezzer will forgive him. 

“Hey, kid, I want you to pack up your stuff.” 

The kid startles where he’s cleaning up after Megatron’s exam. “You’re - you’re firing me? Already? I promise I can be better, I didn’t mean to -“ 

“You’re not getting fired, kid. Frag. But I can’t have you in my medbay saying those things and _disrupting_ slag, making important mechs uncomfortable and getting yourself in trouble. I’m gonna have you moved to a different ward, is all, one down in Polyhex. My private clinic. I’ve got a couple of mechs running it right now that I think’ll do you some good to learn from, talk to. They’ll introduce you to all the slag that Nyan Academy didn’t manage to teach you. You know how to run an MRI?” 

“No -“ 

“Exactly. You’re damn near useless to me right now. Six months, a year in Polyhex - then you’ll come back to finish out the vorn. Got it?” 

Hot Rod just stares at him, all hurt blue optics and shivering plating. “But you’re not firing me?” 

“No, but I _am_ giving you the day off. Go home. Pack up what you think you’ll need. Spend tomorrow saying goodbye to your friends, all that slag. Then you’re back here day after to pick up your travel pass and the directions to the clinic.” 

“O-oh.” The kid looks down at his peds. “Right. Thanks, sir. I...” 

“I get it, kid. You heard my name and thought you’d be getting to do big things. But you’re not ready for this kind of place, and I ain’t ready to hold your hand through learning about it. Six months in Polyhex. Make it through that and you’ll breeze through this internship.” 

“...yes, sir.” 

Ratchet watches him slink out of the exam room. 

The nurses are gonna start putting bitrex in his energon for sure, now, he knows. They all liked the kid. 

It’s just six months.


	3. Chapter 3

Ratchet travels with him down to Polyhex. He tells Hot Rod that it’s to check up on the clinic, but they both know he’s there to make sure the speedster gets to the Dead End safely. 

Obtaining the travel passes wasn’t easy, and transportation between Iacon and the other cities is restricted to only what the Iaconian government deems necessary. It’s only Ratchet’s connections to the Primacy and the Towers that allowed him to get his hands on two passes to Polyhex, included a visa for Hot Rod’s stay there, without fighting through the usual red tape. 

Ratchet doesn’t tell Hot Rod any of this. They travel in awkward silence, other than the mech’s awed eclamations over the view outside their transport. They took the off-cycle flight, late enough that the kid’s asleep after the first hour, and Ratchet only shakes him awake once they’ve landed. Hot Rod is still trying to rub the sleep out of his optics as they step out onto the docks, spoiler wings fluttering prettily as he tries to wake himself up. The dawn light is just barely able to break through the heavy smog that covers the city like a curtain. The sunlight is more brown than gold here.

“It’s like being back in Nyon,” Hot Rod murmurs. He doesn’t sound happy about it. “It even smells the same.” 

“Six months, kid. Just until you’re trained up enough to come back.” 

The kid sighs, shoulders falling. “Where are we going?” 

“You’re gonna be staying in an apartment I’ve got set up in Middle Polyhex, and you’ll be commuting to and from the clinic every day. It’s the safest apartment I could afford on short notice.” 

“You don’t stay there when you’re here?” 

“I stay in the clinic. I’m never here for more than a few weeks at a time, the suite above the clinic’s comfortable enough for short stays.“ Hot Rod would be in the city for too long to do the same. Ratchet knows that a medic’s ability to separate their work from their private life is one of the easiest ways to tell if they’ll last more than a vorn at the job. It’s why he sets all of his clinic employees up in apartments while they’re doing their rounds at the clinic.

Ratchet does not intend to send his intern off only to be handed back a mech too burnt out to be put to proper use. 

“Right.” Hot Rod inches a head of him on the street, before falling back behind his taillights. _Speedsters_. Always eager to get places, and almost impossible to keep under the speed limit. “I’ll be working my normal hours at the clinic?” 

“There a problem with being asked to work overtime?” Ratchet gripes, momentarily forgetting half the reason they’re in Polyhex - the kid needs to learn some damn boundaries. 

He can feel Hot Rod flinching at the edge of his proximity sensors, dropping back from him just a little more. “No, sir.” 

“Don’t fall out of sight, Polyhex ain’t exactly welcoming to newcomers.” He pulls off into a side road, leading Hot Rod into a small, gated area just outside the busier central road that runs through most of Middle Polyhex. 

“And you’re gonna leave me here alone?” 

“You’ll have the protection of the clinic, soon enough. Something you _don’t_ have right now.” The apartment building’s better than the one Hot Rod rents out of in Iacon, which he shares with two other interns and which hasn’t been up to code since the end of the Golden Age. This apartment has a berthroom he doesn’t have to share, a tiny washrack with a shower that doesn’t leak and a mirror that shows more than just a tiny portion of his frame. It even has a small area for heating and cooling fuel and storing additives. 

“It’s...” 

“Yeah, I know it ain’t much. Berth’s as hard as a rock and they keep the building’s temp controls too fragging low, but I stocked the place with some polish and fuel to get you through the first week while you get used to the place. Drop your stuff in the berthroom, and I’ll show you to the clinic. We’ll get you stamped with the clinic’s ident sticker and I’ll make sure you’re introduced to the medics.” 

Hot Rod wanders through the hab, touching everything. The appliances are all shined up, and it smells weird, like detergent. “You’re not staying.” 

“Not even I can get a visa that lets me stay more than a day, kid. I’ve got a same day flight back. Soon as you’re settled in the clinic, I have to go.” 

Hot Rod feels something hot squirm in his chest. He tells himself that it’s just annoyance at being reassigned. “Who am I working with again?” 

“You’re working under Glit, an incredibly capable clinic manager, First Aid, a nurse I have on rotation in and out of Iacon, and Ambulon, a junior medic here to get more experience, like you are.” Ratchet urges them both out of the apartment as soon as Hot Rod’s dropped his stuff off and had his ID registered with the door’s lock. “C’mon, hurry up.” 

The speedster just about stumbles over himself getting back out onto the street, urged faster by the ambulance. He’s off kilter and nervous as Ratchet leads him into the city. 

He was forged in Nyon, in a city full of belching factories; it was a hard place, where the work was monotonous and difficult, but there was fuel for everyone who put in the hours and if things were hard then at least you could turn to your neighbor for help. He doesn’t see that sort of life in Polyhex, the deeper they ventured under Polyhex’s surface - no camadarie, no art on its walls, no fuel assistance or drug rehab centers on its corners. Just a harsh sort of expectation for independence. This is a city that can’t be brought back to life like Nyon had been. He stares at the homeless they pass in the streets, sprawled strutless on corners or lurching out of alleys with offerings of drugs or their own frames for sale. 

Hot Rod brushes his field against Ratchet’s, but pulls back before the mech realizes he’s trying to get his attention. Ratchet isn’t the mech to ask questions like _Why are things this bad?_ , or _why are there so many homeless mechs?_ \- he wouldn’t get the answer he’s looking for. Ratchet had called Nyon a slum. He doesn’t have the optics to tell the difference.

If Nyon is a slum, then what is Polyhex? 

_The Pit_

Ratchet draws them up short in front of a small clinic. The buildings to either side of it are obviously abandoned, the store fronts dingy and the glass fronting to the shops broken in, but the itself clinic is power-washed white, the red glyphs on the front burning bright. Even Hot Rod’s paint job looks dull under Polyhex’s smoggy sunlight. 

Inside, the clinic is as clean as it was outside. It looks like someone took a detailing brush to the grout of the tiles on the floor. The inside of the clinic has the sharp, almost overwhelming smell of antiseptic, badly perfumed with something artificial and sweet in an attempt to cover it up. The front of the clinic has a small collection of chairs in the waiting area, all of them hard and uncomfortable looking. There’s a mech working on filing behind a counter stretching from the left side of the room, and a hallway with a short gate leading deeper into the building next to him. 

Ratchet greets the mech behind the counter with a smile. “First Aid!” 

The nurse behind the desk stands, arms open. He’s got the typical medic alt, some sort of ambulance, with a face mask and visor that means that Rodimus will have to try to read his field or his frame language, with the expected red and white paint job. Rodimus spots the single discrepancy in the mech’s frame - where a normal mech would have their left medic decal, he has a sticker for some sort of show. The custom decal _can’t_ be allowed. Rodimus knows it’s definitely not medic standard, anyways. He’d only gotten away with his flame decals ‘cause he was forged with them. 

“Is this the new ore you said you’d bring?” The mech’s voice is high and eager. “Thank Primus, there’s supposed to be a festival running through here in a few weeks and you always knows what that does.” 

“Clinic’s pretty empty today.” 

“Catch up day. Trying to get everything in shape to keep the kid from getting burnt out when things start getting busy.” The mech steps out from behind the counter, only to open the gate to the back of the clinic. “Come on, Ambulon and Gilt are in the back, I’m sure they want to put the kid to work getting familiar with everything before tomorrow.” 

Ratchet pats Hot Rod on the shoulder, laughing. He doesn’t notice the way the younger mech flinches away from the touch. “Sorry, Aid, I don’t have time to chat. We took longer in the hab then I thought we would - I have to get back to the airfield and catch the transport back to Iacon before the Senate accuses me of running off again. Think you could fit him out with a clinic ID and see him settled?” 

Aid’s field feels unsure for a moment, before smoothing out and brightening. “Sure. I’ll tell them you dropped the kid off. You’ll be back for the usual delivery and rotation?” 

“Never miss it.” Ratchet nudges the kid forward. “Go on. Aid’s a good nurse, he’ll settle you in. You have my comm.” 

Hot Rod winces. “... yes, sir.” 

Aid turns optics on him as Ratchet scurries out of the clinic, obviously eager to get away from the dull, hard existence of Polyhex. His field is predatory and dark, whatever friendliness he’d shown Ratchet gone. “Welcome to the Polyhexian clinic, kid, and Ratchet’s little pet projects.” 

Hot Rod stares, field drawing in towards his center. “Pet... projects?” 

“You’ll see. Time for a good hard lesson on life in the Dead End.”


	4. Chapter 4

The first mech he’s introduced to is tall, and mostly purple, with a narrowed and suspicious expression. Hot Rod doesn’t like the way the mech looks at him, and even if First Aid isn’t friendly he’s at least less terrifying than the huge, heavy mech who steps out of the back room. He’s cleaning his hands, running a cloth over the plating of his servos with the obsessive attentions Hot Rod has observed in most medics he’s met. The city-taught ones, anyways. The ones who’d taught him hadn’t done more than the required maintenance, concerned more with keeping the equipment they used than their own, replaceable frames functioning. Hands were easier to get off of corpses than wringing funding from the afts up in Iacon. 

The mech looks between First Aid and Hot Rod. “This is the new one?” 

“Yup. Ratchet came and dropped him off.” 

For a moment the mech’s expression falls. “He’s left already.” 

“You know how Ratchet is. I’m showing the new mech around today, then I think we’re getting him working tomorrow.” 

Hot Rod is pretty sure this is Ambulon, the junior medic that Ratchet mentioned. He doesn’t know why a junior medic, fully credentialed and trained, would be bowing helm to a _nurse_ , but he’s not about to start questioning it. Smart mechs don’t try to nudge at the local power system until they knew how and why it worked. 

“My name is Hot Rod, in case you wanted to know. I, uh, I was working with Head Medic Ratchet in Iacon. I got my credentials in Nyon.” 

“I didn’t know they had a medical school in Nyon.” 

_They don’t_ , Hot Rod doesn’t say. His smile is tight at the corners. “I’m your new intern.” 

“Fresh meat,” Ambulon murmurs, and Hot Rod almost wished he was smiling. He looks too serious to be joking. 

He really isn’t looking forward to being hazed twice in the same vorn. 

— 

He doesn’t get a chance to leave the clinic until well after sunset; they set him to cleaning, organizing, polishing, and exploring every inch of the place. He learns where every screw and bolt in the tiny inventory room goes, how to maintain their scarce and outdated equipment, the software on the computers that let them manage the clinic. 

When he tries to ask _why_ he needs to know how the whole place works on his first day there, First Aid only cocks his helm and tells him that there’s a festival coming. He won’t even say what kind; every time he starts to ask, First Aid changes the subject. It’s like it’s supposed to be a surprise. 

Hot Rod hates surprises. 

He’s exhausted straight down to his struts by the time First Aid tells him he’s allowed to go, stinking of cleansers and the paint at the edges of his finger plating worn away from doing maintenance on the clinic all day. He’s too tired to even think about transforming to drive back to the apartment. The sky outside is dark when he steps onto the street. The stars can’t break through the smog that hangs above the city; even the street lights, few and broken as they are, struggle to light the darkness more than a foot or two in any direction. The neon signs on every liquor shop and bar are only smudges of light against the other buildings. 

It’s late. He barely remembers his way back to the apartment he was apparently just _given_ , ridiculous as it feels to be given a whole place to live on his own. Fragging rich mechs like Ratchet, who just... give people things and let them have them. Even with whatever price they probably carry, it’s more than he’d ever expected to get from it. 

The pronged tip of his ped catches on a bit of broken street, the world _tips_ , and he watches the ground rush up to his face with the sort of resignation that comes after being on your peds for two more shifts than he expected to be working that day - 

Only for an iron bar to wrap around his waist. He comes to a jerking stop, knees slack, and it takes him almost a full minute to realize he’s hanging in the air because someone _caught_ him. 

The mech sets him back on his feet, hands lingering on his sides. Hot Rod turns to thank him, already pushing the mech away - he’d learned his lesson when he’d gotten to Iacon, about letting strange mechs too close. He’s met by fevered gold optics, bright with the dull purple edge of Syc addiction to them. When he lets go of Hot Rod his hands have a tremor to them. “You’re - you came out of the clinic. Ratchet was there.” 

“You were watching us?” 

“I panhandle here. It’s a good spot. Lots of mechs feel gold after stepping out of the clinic.” There’s scrapes on his knuckles and the edges of his jaw, like he’d gotten into a fist fight recently. It can’t be easy holding a prime panhandling spot in a place like the Dead End, especially not for a Syc addict. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” He shoves the mech’s hand away from his middle. “Thanks for catching me, but I’ve gotta head back to my apartment. You have a place to kit down?” 

“Off the main road, near a vent. Good spot. Warm.” He shuffles away from Hot Rod, head down. Little shivers are running up and down his spine, limbs jerking. Probably jonesing for a hit of Syc, or something lighter. Hot Rod can tell he’s some sort of high-octane high-output racer alt, and those sorts of mechs go through withdrawal worse than others frametypes. If he’s looking for a way to come down easy, he can’t do it without some sort of stim, but he can already tell that the white-framed mech isn’t. Doesn’t seem the type, anyways, to want to clean up. 

“You stay there tonight. That shaking getting worse?” 

“Only ‘til I get good again.” 

Hot Rod nods, forcing a smile. How many mechs like these had he seen in Nyon, before they’d raised the funding needed to give the city the means to treat them? “How about you drop by the clinic tomorrow? Can’t give out what you’re used to, probably, but I can make the shaking a little less bad.” 

“Ain’t needing no help.” 

“I know. Don’t need to give you any, either, but I’m offering. Your choice to take it or not.” 

The mech shuffles back into the nook in the wall he’d probably been panhandling from. “You get on back to your place, medic. Isn’t safe even for your types around here, after certain hours. Not even the clinic’s protections’re gonna stop all kinds of folks from attacking you.” 

“I hear you, mech. See you tomorrow, okay?” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

Hot Rod goes, something heavy like iron settled in the bottom of his tank. It’s the weight of a realization, of fear. Of expectation. 

Ratchet hadn’t sent him to work in a clinic. Ratchet had sent him back to a Nyon from _before_. And he’d done it because of a couple of mistakes. 

_If I screw up here, where will he send me next?_

He doesn’t sleep well that night.


	5. Interlude I: Gilt

Glit waits until the mech is gone to pad out of the office. It’s always best to leave the new mechs to First Aid and Ambulon’s tender mercies before he invites the complications his frame would bring to any professional relationship with a new colleague. Even after the revolution there are few Cybertronians that accept mechanimals as equal to the vehiculars. 

He’s used to it, but first impressions very much make the rest of the relationship. The kid’s from one of Iacon’s schools, the same city he’d come up in. He knows their proclivities, their preferences, the ugly remnants of a rigid social stratus that they still insist on teaching there. He isn’t looking forward to teaching the new idiot how to act, especially when it’s only to lose him in six months whenever he figures out what erroneous lesson Ratchet is trying to teach him. 

Glit is getting Primus damn tired of the medic’s pet projects. 

First Aid turns to him with a brightness in his field that Glit hadn’t expected. Usually, the nurse hates interlopers. They ask too many questions about his methods. “He’s _smart_. When you said we were getting a new one, I thought it’d be that Helekese idiot you kept complaining about!” 

“Doure dropped out of school his senior year.” 

“You were still complaining about him.” 

Ambulon snorts where he’s hunched over the nightly reports, slowly pecking away at the keys. “He’s got the same sort of exploring spirit Aid has, if you want to know what kind of monster you’re bringing into the clinic. Likes to use unorthodox, outdated methods. Whatever he’s got on hand.” 

“Which, though less clinically advised than other methods, is likely going to mean his success in this clinic. Good work figuring that out, First Aid.” The mech’s optics go bright with pride, like they always do when someone praises him. Glit jumps and lands with feline grace on the triage counter. He takes a moment to rub shoulders with Ambulon, the mech leaning into the touch. He’s always been quieter about accepting affection than First Aid. “And what did you learn about our newest little nurse?” 

Ambulon grimaces artfully. That’s how Glit knows he’s going to praise the little bot - he always looks so upset when he has to say something nice about an outsider. “Hot Rod works hard. Doesn’t complain.” It’s a lot, coming from the sullen mech. He’s usually tight-lipped. 

“So less likely to cause problems than the last one?” 

First Aid tilts his helm up, visor to the ceiling. “What happened with Tugger was his own fault.” 

“We _told_ him not to touch the grounding wires,” Ambulon agrees. “It was his own arrogance that got him.” 

Glit shakes his helm. He’d laugh if it wouldn’t make him look unprofessional. “His hands were half numb for six months. Ratchet had to cycle him out of surgical training. Did you know he’s working in hospital admin now?” 

“Good. Sadistic bastard didn’t deserve to be working on patients.” 

“And that has nothing to do with his accident, I’m sure.” 

First Aid nudges a clipboard on the desk out of its orderly, straight line. “Arrogance causes issues.” 

Ambulon nudges it back. “People who assume they’re right are people who make mistakes. They don’t believe that anyone else could possibly be right. Even the most intelligent of mechs, unable to admit to their own shortcomings, will eventually fall prey to them. Mechs we know, mechs we’re proud to know, fall prey to it as easily as anyone else.” 

“Is that going to be a problem with this one?” 

“This one? No. Hot Rod asked questions, and he listened to what we have to say.”

“Might be an issue with him being over eager, though.” First Aid’s excitement bleeds into his voice. “I can’t _wait_ until the Festival of Lights. I wanna see what he can do.” 

“You’ll see it soon enough, don’t worry.” Gilt’s tail lashes. He hates festival days; too many hurt mechs tumbling through his medbay too quickly, when it’s too hard to do follow up. Too much of a chance to make a mistake. Too much of a chance that someone will fade grey under his paws before he can get them good again. 

Every festival has a death count, in his clinic. Overdoses, street fights, domestic violence, drunken disorder; the Dead End is a breeding ground for the sorts of situations that end in a mech choking on their own energon in a dark alley, going grey as they blow their vents open and overheat, their sparks sputtering out in their chests. 

Glit blinks the phantom worries from his optics. “We’re good to go for the festival?” 

“As prepared as we ever are,” Ambulon assures him. “Ratchet arranged a supply delivery for two days before the festival, everything else in the clinic is organized, appointments for tomorrow have been called and reminded of their start times and requirements, our overnight guests have been settled in to sleep. We are, as far as I am concerned, ready to work tomorrow.” 

Glit slides from the counter to the floor. “Good. You two did a wonderful job; feel free to head home.” 

“You’re staying late again?” 

His tail lashes back and forth. “Don’t I always? Head home, you two. You’ll need the rest.” 

His nurses know better than to try to convince him to take off work. Besides, who else would be there to monitor their night patients? 

Gilt settles on the perch he’d built into the wall of the overnight ward and listens to his mechs leave. They’ll message him when they get home safe, and then he’ll power down to recharge. He just needs to know all his mechs are safe. 

Then he can rest.


	6. Chapter 6

Hot Rod heads in to the clinic early the next morning. The apartment Ratchet had given him didn’t come kitted out with fuel, so he’d ended up grabbing something from one of the little shop-arounds on the corner of his street. They didn’t have those in Iacon, and he’d missed it when he was finalizing his studies there. Here he can grab a fistful of energon crisps and a two cubes of fuel. He hunts down the mech from last night’s vent and leaves the fuel next to his recharging frame. 

He could tell the mech woke up when he did it, but far be him for questioning why the racer didn’t move to stop him when he left. Sometimes mechs are past caring about those sorts of things. 

He’s still sipping on his own quickly-cooling cube when he steps into the clinic. First Aid is already there, hunched over the receptionist’s desk - the clinic not having a proper receptionist, and therefore harassing the probably unsuitable mech for it - frantically scribbling over a medical textbook. He barely looks up when Hot Rod walks in. 

“Hey new spark. You’re on inventory again.” 

Hot Rod swallowed a bitter _again_? It feels like the only thing he’s done since he earned his residency is make mistakes and take inventory. 

“Right. And after?” 

“We’re doing last-minute surgeries all day. Have to, with the festival coming. Don’t know if we’ll have the supplies or the time for a few weeks before or after.” 

“Festival?” 

The mech finally looks up. “The Festival of the Steady Spark. It’s a vornly event, and it lasts all month. Set up starts next month, and the whole thing’ll take about three until it’s over. For _us_ , it’s three months of cleaning up mechs who can’t get out of each others’ ways, foreigners, dealing with the _idiots_ who can’t handle their intoxicants.” His plating fluffs out. “Overdoses, street brawls, idiots breaking into our clinic because they think we have things we don’t - basically, welcome to retail during Solenoid.” 

Hot Rod remembers the hot, ugly way frames crammed together in stores in the days before Solenoid. The fist fights that would break out during the days just before the holiday. Nyon had never been like that, but Nyon didn’t have the commercial culture that Iacon clearly did. They didn’t have the means for it. 

“You’re expecting a full clinic?” 

“We’re expecting spillover. Usually Ratchet’s here to help us handle it.” The blank blue visor considers him. “He gave us you instead. You should feel proud of the fact that he trusts you so much to have you here, now.” 

Hot Rod swallows down the words that would give away why he’s really there. _I was just too much of a frag up to keep in Iacon._ Surely whoever’s in charge here already knows. “Right. So. Inventory.” 

“You know where everything is by now. Keep out of the patient’s ward, I’ll walk you through how to do their morning routines in a few hours.” 

It doesn’t occur to him that if he were anywhere else, he wouldn’t be expected to listen to a nurse. “Yessir.” 

“And don’t call me sir! I’m First Aid. We don’t do titles here.” 

Hot Rod hurries past the desk, chugging down the last of his morning cube as he does. 

__ 

He’s carefully sorting through their closet of chemicals, assessing exactly how empty a bottle should be before he lists it for replacement, when the mechanimal pads into the room. 

When he was being trained up in Nyon there were a dozen or so beastformers in the entire city, and two of those apprenticed right along with him. One was Starling, a minicon with the cleverest claws for wiring that Hot Rod had ever seen, even in fully trained medics, and Hoar, an arctic hare with a quick mind and fidgeting feet. He’d dropped out to become a messenger. Said it suited his alt mode better. 

Starling had made it through the whole program, though. But he’d done right by Nyon and stayed in the city. 

Hot Rod had left. 

So the first thing that Hot Rod notices on Glit is the medic mark in the middle of his forehead, stark against the glittery white of his paint and of a shade to match his optics. The second he notices is the specialized harness set around his neck and shoulders, and the spindly mechanized arms coming off of it. They’re curled back like the legs of a metallospider, but it’s obvious to him that they’re capable of uncurling and extending for use, with little grasping hands at the end. It’s only after the careful cataloguing of all of these that Hot Rod fully registers that the mech is a mechanimal. 

Well. He hadn’t met the mech in charge of the clinic yet. That would make sense, now. It wouldn’t have mattered in Nyon, but Iacon had this weird hand up on frames from before the . He sits back on his heels and turns his best smile on the mech. 

“Hi. You must be Glit?” 

The mechanimal cocks his wedge-shaped helm. “Most people don’t recognize me on sight.” 

“Why?

“Because most mechs can’t see what’s been dropped right in front of them.” The mech grins, as much as a cat can grin, field suffused with cold amusement. “I think you’re just about done with inventory?” 

“Not, well, not yet. I was -“ 

“It’s fine. You can finish up after I’ve taken you out on rounds.” 

Hot Rod’s fingers are so tight around the data pad the casing creaks. “You must know that I’, not good at rounds -“ 

“I know exactly how you are at your rounds, Hot Rod.” 

“Oh.” 

The mech’s tail flicks hypnotically back and forth. “Now. We’re not in Iacon anymore. There’s no endless well of funding and supplies. There’s no funding period, some quarters, and we have to do with what we have.” He turns, clearly expecting Hot Rod to follow. “We’re better kitted out than most of the other clinics in this city, and better than any of the free clinics in the Dead End. We have the same equipment most hospitals have, and the space for them, for all that things that get _broken_ don’t get replaced. We’ll need the sort of ingenuity the idiots in Iacon don’t appreciate. I’ll be walking you through how to use everything today after rounds.” He glances over his shoulder at Hot Rod, who’d stumbled out of the inventory room after him. “After that, you’ll go back to inventory.” 

“I -“ _don’t understand_. “Yessir.” 

Another flick of that long, barb-ended tail. “Good. Now hurry up, we don’t have all day.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Medic Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22997215) by [WizardSandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardSandwich/pseuds/WizardSandwich)




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